


Wood For The Trees

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Community: spn_summergen, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2499377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hikers have been reported missing in Elkhorn National Park. When the Winchesters investigate, Dean discovers more than one kind of monster is lurking in the woods. Set in s1 post-Faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wood For The Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Gift fic for Dizzojay at spn_summergen on Livejournal.

The diner was crowded with mismatched, formica-topped tables and crooked wooden chairs. A fan spun listlessly from the ceiling, wobbling back and forth on its uneven axis, waging a losing war against air heavy with the smell of burnt oil. Someone had dropped money in the clapped-out jukebox, Johnny Cash musing about empty pop bottles and paradise lost. 

Dean smiled his thanks at a waitress and held the plate up to his face, inhaling the scent of grilled meat. God may have been the one supernatural creature that _didn’t_ exist, but still. When faced with the miraculous creation of steak, Dean was almost willing to believe. Almost.

He glanced across the table at Sam, whose upper body was curled around the laptop like a lopsided question mark. A bowl of rapidly cooling soup sat near his elbow, pushed to one side and forgotten. Given the look of it – dishwater brown, with bits of green poking up through the surface - Dean thought it was probably for the best.

“Find anything?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Well, maybe.” Sam pushed back his hair and frowned at the screen. “A Michael Sinclair, thirty-six, disappeared last week while hiking through Elkhorn National Park. His body was recovered from a lake at the bottom of a cliff the locals call Widow’s Drop.”

Dean bit into his sandwich, dropping pieces of greasy onion onto the table, and moaned, before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Sounds inviting,” he said, around a too large mouthful. “And it’s our kind of thing how?”

“You’re disgusting,” Sam said automatically, without looking up. “I did some digging. Over the last decade, eight people have been reported missing while hiking in the area. Now, some of them were never found, but three bodies turned up in the same place as Michael Sinclair.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “So, some tree huggers decided to enjoy the great outdoors, took a wrong turn, and sploosh - ever-lasting life as a human sponge. What can I say? It’s a dangerous world out there.” 

Sam shook his head.

“No, listen to this. In each case the local coroner recorded a finding of accidental death, right? But the autopsy results show the victims all had damaged heart muscle and elevated cortisol levels.” 

Dean stared at him blankly. 

“Uh, stress hormones.”

“Gotcha. The kind of thing you might have if something –“

“Scared you to death. Literally.” 

“You’re thinking, what? Phantom hiker gone boogedy?” Dean asked.

Sam’s lips twitched into a smile. “Close. A Gwyllion. It’s a Welsh hag that manifests as a goat, or an old woman wearing a –“ he broke off. “Uh, never mind.”

“Wearing what?” Dean demanded.

A look of pained resignation flashed across Sam’s face, as though watching a train wreck about to unfold, but powerless to stop it. “A pot as a hat.” 

Dean blinked. “A pot? As in a planter box?”

“Yes, Dean, a flowerpot,” Sam answered witheringly. “There’s a murderous hag roaming the woods with a floral arrangement strapped to her head.”

Dean blinked again, and then he smirked. “Dude, you said floral arrangement.”

Sam scowled and turned back to the laptop, fingers striking the keys with more force than was strictly necessary. “Whatever. Think saucepan. Anyway, the lore’s kind of sketchy, but it says here that Gwyllion live in mountain areas. They like to leap out and frighten unsuspecting travellers.”

“That’s gotta give your heart a jolt.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “And anyone who hears the cry of a Gwyllion is likely to find themselves at the bottom the nearest river. Or in this case, a lake.”

“So, a pissed off goat-fairy with a Martha Stewart complex. Seriously? Man, whatever happened to the classics.” Dean looked sadly at the remains of his sandwich and tossed it back onto the plate. “Say anything about how we kill it?”

“Looks pretty standard. Iron should do the trick.”

Dean stood up and pulled out his wallet. “Guess we’ve got ourselves a gig, then. C’mon, let’s go gank us a Gwyllion.”

*

It was mid-morning when they pulled into a small parking lot surrounded by trees.

Fog the color of cigarette smoke crept through the shadowed spaces between them, making the woods appear to shift and move. A painted blue building stood off to one side, behind a chain-link fence. In the pale light it looked slightly washed out and derelict, like a child’s abandoned play set.

A faded sign said: Elkhorn National Park.

“Guess this is it,” Sam said, without much enthusiasm, scrunching down to peer out of the window. 

Dean nodded and let the engine fall silent. “Showtime.”

He climbed out of the car and went straight to the trunk, while Sam stood and stretched, arms waving about like a one-man evangelical revival.

“I swear the car keeps getting smaller,” Sam said.

Dean patted the Impala. “Don’t you listen to him, baby. Growth hormones do strange things to the mind.” 

“Can I help you boys with something?” 

Dean turned to see a woman standing in the building’s now open doorway, a rifle resting against her leg. She was tall and solid, with short dark hair. A pair of glasses hung from a nylon cord around her neck.

“Thought we’d take a walk,” he called back. “Check out the view.”

The women shut the door firmly and started down the front steps towards them, her stride confident and unhurried. Up close she was older than Dean had first thought. About mid-fifties, with a web of fine wrinkles spreading out across her face and hard brown eyes. 

Dean tracked the shifting sway of the rifle and moved until he was standing slightly in front of Sam.

The woman stopped a few feet away. “Strange time of year for visitors. Usually another month or two before the tourists start showing up.”

“Guess we wanted to beat the rush,” Sam said. He stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Sam, and this is my brother, Dean.”

The woman hesitated. “Thelma McMillan,” she said eventually. She reached out and briefly gripped Sam’s hand with her own, before letting it drop. “I’m the caretaker here during the off season.”

“Must get kind of lonely,” Sam said.

Thelma shrugged. “Suits me fine. The bears don’t bother me none, and I don’t bother the bears. Besides, in my experience it’s people cause most of the world’s troubles. Nothing but deceit and fornication these days. No, the less I have to do with people the better.” 

Silence.

Dean opened his mouth, before thinking twice and closing it again. He pursed his lips together and gave Sam a look. _Dude, this one’s all yours._

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, right. Do you get many hikers passing through?” 

“Enough.”

“Place like this must attract a lot of ghost stories. People ever talk hearing about hearing strange noises? Weird stuff happening in the woods?”

“Wouldn’t know. None of my business.”

“Notice any cooking utensils go missing lately?” Dean asked. He grunted as Sam’s elbow connected painfully with his ribs. “What?” he hissed, turning to glare at Sam. 

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Trail picks up about a hundred yards down that path,” Thelma interrupted, pointing at a small gap at the edge of the parking lot, barely visible through the encroaching wilderness. 

“Ain’t something I’d recommend for beginners though,” she added, giving Dean a skeptical once over. “Forecast says a rain system’s rolling in later today and things can get pretty nasty up there. It’ll turn you about ‘til you don’t know your up from your down.” 

Sam smiled politely. “Thanks for the warning. We’ll be sure to head back at the first sign of trouble.”

*

Two hours later, Dean was beginning to think Thelma might have had at least one valid point.

The trail was hard going. 

What had seemed like a nice scenic stroll when considered after a few beers, from the comfort of a seedy motel room, was in fact a steep climb up the side of a mountain. The slippery, uneven path twisted through the trees, leading this way and that, as if trying to swallow itself. 

Added to which, the weather had turned.

Dean glanced up at the dark, overhanging branches and sighed. While offering protection from the worst of the rain, they made the forest feel claustrophobic, as though the gnarled trees were tightening around them, intent on suffocation. 

Suddenly, he missed the sky. 

“So, uh, what does this Gwyllion sound like again?” Dean asked, more as a distraction than anything else. The amusement of watching Sam screw his face up and attempt a high-pitched, howling _Ww-bwb!_ noise was just an added bonus. 

Sam huffed and ignored the question. “We should reach a clearing around the next bend,“ he said, panting slightly. “There’s an unofficial look-out point above the lake.”

Dean nodded. 

His fingers tightened around the stock of a modified, repeating crossbow, narrow iron bolt cocked and loaded. Spares rested in a holster strapped around one thigh. He shouldered his duffle, drawing comfort from the familiar weight.

They walked in silence for another few minutes; the only sounds were an eerie murmur of wind pushing against the trees and monotonous, squelching thud of their footsteps. The skin between Dean’s shoulder blades started to itch, adrenaline swirling deep in his gut.

And then, the woods thinned and parted. 

They stepped out onto an exposed, rocky outcrop fringed with black mud and coarse tufts of grass. Dean blinked and shifted uncomfortably. _Be careful what you wish for._ Although the rain had died off to a misty drizzle, the air was biting. A still grey lake stretched out beneath them, melding with the sullen sky; an abandoned snow globe wrapped up in butcher’s paper.

“I think this is it,” Sam said, pulling a creased map out of his backpack. He traced a finger over the tiny, red and yellow lines, giving up as a random gust of wind plucked at the paper, threatening to carry it away. “So, what’s the plan?”

For a long moment Dean didn’t respond, just stood very still and let the question hang. There was something weird about this place, he thought, almost absently, with its dizzying view and the sensation of being watched from the shadows, as if the trees were making notes and keeping score. Something old and strange and wrong, wrong, wrong… 

“Dean?

“Huh?” Dean replied. He turned, taking in Sam’s pinched expression, and forced a grin. “Guess we wait a while and see if Martha’s feeling frisky.”

*

They did a quick sweep of the area and retreated back to the edge of the woods, hunkering down next to a fallen log. The unease Dean had felt faded, but didn’t disappear entirely, crackling in the background like static from a distant radio station.

After unzipping their bags and sorting through the weapons – a couple of guns loaded with wrought iron rounds, knives, spikes, and some prototype hex bags - it didn’t take long before Dean grew impatient and started to fidget.

“Well, this is thrilling,” he grumbled. “Where’s a Wendigo when you need one?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause it was so much fun last time.”

“Dude, it was awesome,” Dean protested. “Hey, once this is done, what do you say we head out to Vegas? Take a week off and have ourselves some fun.” He positioned the crossbow against an upraised knee and checked the scope again. “You know what’s in Vegas? Showgirls.”

“Showgirls?” Sam echoed, making a face. “We’re not driving to Vegas just so you can harass some poor woman! Besides, what happened to the whole saving people thing?” There was a beat of silence, and then he muttered, “Or does that only matter when you’re not looking to get laid?”

“Fine,” snapped Dean. “Here’s an idea: maybe you can bunk down with Thelma. The two of you can sit around all day judging people and being miserable. Discuss the uplifting themes in The Road or something.”

Sam blinked. “Cormac McCarthy?” he asked, sounding curious rather than annoyed, as if Dean had transformed himself into a cryptic crossword clue. “Really?

Dean felt himself flush and turned away, pretending to rummage through his bag. “Reading’s a thing, Sam. Think you’ll find its actually pretty common these days.”

“No, I didn’t mean –“ Sam broke off. “It’s just, you weren’t really, uh, into books much. Before.”

“Don’t worry, you’re still the geek in the family.” Dean straightened and rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under his palm. He stood up, groaning slightly as chilled muscles complained, and grabbed the crossbow. “Stay here and keep watch. I’m gonna take another look around, see if I can lure it out.”

Sam immediately scrambled to his feet. “No way! Just because that’s what Dad –“

“It’s got nothing to do with Dad,” said Dean firmly. “It’ll be fine. Besides, twenty-six, remember?”

Sam glanced at the clearing, fingers flexing around the grip of his gun, and nodded reluctantly. “Stay away from the edge,” he instructed, sighing as Dean immediately set off towards it. “Or not.”

The breeze had picked up again, gusting over the cliff.

Without the protection of the trees, the cold was vicious. It circled frigid fingers around Dean’s neck and wrists, and crept up the sleeves of his jacket. He forced back a shiver and rolled his shoulders, keeping his eyes focused on the slope of craggy rock jutting out over the lake. 

He walked across it, stopping several feet from the edge, unwilling to move any closer. The wind made his eyes tear. Although Dean had never had a problem with heights before, something about the congealed, swirling clouds made his stomach flip-flop unpleasantly. He took a deep breath and swallowed, leaning forward slightly to stare at the ground.

Near his feet was a pile of stones. They were stacked haphazardly on top of each other, one after the other, to form a small pyramid. Or something resembling a cairn. 

“What the hell?” Dean muttered. He crouched down to examine them more closely. 

He picked one of the stones up and turned it over. Scratched roughly onto one side, so tiny he almost missed them, were a set of tally marks. _Taking notes and keeping score._ Dean traced the vertical lines with a thumbnail, before setting it on the ground and selecting another. He scowled as the pitted surface resolved into a second set of marks, more worn than the first.

Crap.

That was a hell of a lot more than eight dead or missing hikers and fond as Dean was of random coincidence, it only stretched so far. Added to which, he’d yet to come across a monster that memorialized its victims. Not of the supernatural variety, anyway. 

And what all of _that_ meant was…nothing remotely good. 

Spooked, he shoved the stone into his pocket and stood up, rubbing the warmth back into his hands. He turned to find Sam watching tensely, wide eyes flicking from Dean to the woods and back again. Dean waved an arm to signal everything was fine, going for casual. 

He startled, heart thumping wildly, when the wind gave a long mournful shriek. Only to realize seconds later that the treetops weren’t moving, and it wasn’t the wind. 

“Sam!” Dean yelled, raising the crossbow. He scanned the trees for any sign of movement, watching from the corner of one eye as Sam backed slowly towards him.

For a long moment everything was still.

The silence was shattered by a mindless scream. It echoed through the woods, scooped out and hollow, like a tormented Tin Man bereft of a heart. Dean felt something inside his chest lurch and stutter, an unfamiliar wave of fear crashing over him. His breathing tightened. 

Sam was a solid presence at his shoulder, gun held straight and steady. “Can you see it?” he asked, voice shaky but determined. 

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. “No, I –“

He caught sight of a pale shape flickering between the trees. It circled around the clearing to the right – quick, slow, quick, quick, slow - as if dancing with the gloom, disappearing somewhere behind their abandoned gear; which just happened to be alongside the trail.

“Looks like this one’s smart,” Sam said. 

The figure re-appeared at the edge of the woods. It could have been an old woman torn from the grave, three weeks past dead. Her body was tattooed with swollen blue veins, collarbones jutting out sharply from beneath an ash colored smock, trying to claw their way out. A lumpen, black pot was fused to her skull, bloodied flesh growing over the edges. 

The hag peered out at them from behind a tree, fingernails digging into the bark, and grinned slyly. She took one slow, dragging step towards them, and then another, twigs snapping sharply beneath her feet. 

Dean tried squeezing the trigger of his crossbow, only to realise he couldn’t, that he was frozen in place, unable to move. His breathing sped up until it was panicked and gasping, lungs working overtime to keep pace with his heart. 

The sudden roar of Sam’s gun was deafening.

The bullet went wide, thunking harmlessly into a tree. The hag shrieked and rushed towards them, her face stretched and blurred, like an overexposed photograph. Another gunshot rang out. Dean was dimly aware of Sam calling his name, before something crashed into his side, knocking him to the ground. The crossbow slipped from numb fingers and skidded across the rock, out of reach.

The world frayed at the edges, reality skipping a beat and sliding into different, black-edged frame.

Dean blinked at the sky, disoriented and uncertain about whether he’d passed out. The hag’s face swam into view above him. She was straddling his body, an emaciated hand splayed out above his heart. Dean could hear her terrible breathing, a strangulated wheeze that gurgled and popped. 

“Pwll in ois oisou,“ she hissed, eyes bulging with glee.

Terror pulsed through him like an electrical charge, followed seconds later by a spasm of laughter. Because seriously, after the whole Rawhide thing, what were the chances? _Hey, Sammy, guess what? Think my heart’s about to get all fucked up again._ The vice around Dean’s chest tightened, like a belt being cinched after a hard winter, and his thoughts tumbled away, went someplace dark and lonely. 

He struggled weakly, listening to the slow pulse of blood in his ears.

The hag’s expression shifted to shock as an iron bolt emerged without warning from the center of her chest, its razor sharp tip resting not far from Dean’s own. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream of rage, before she exploded in a shower of dirt. The particles seemed to hang in the air, suspended in time from invisible thread, and then they were gone.

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, lungs inflating like a crumpled paper bag. He raised his head. Sam was standing maybe ten yards back, holding the crossbow. His face was blank and white, absolutely still apart from eyes that locked frantically onto Dean’s and refused to let go. 

“I’m good,” Dean rasped. “We’re good.”

The tension snapped, life flowing back into Sam’s face. He jogged towards Dean and sunk down into an awkward crouch beside him, all knees and elbows.

“Dean! Hey. Hey, you okay?” 

Dean felt hands tugging at his shoulders, hauling him upright. The world tilted sideways, monochrome lights sparking behind his eyes, before clicking back into place. He swallowed heavily and looked at Sam, taking in a grazed cheekbone and the tight lines bracketing his brother’s mouth. 

“Dude! Enough with the groping,” Dean said, pulling away. “Seriously, we’re finding you a girl. I’m fine. Just gimme a minute.”

Sam scowled, but rocked back on his heels, relaxing slightly.

They sat for a moment without speaking, silence on the wrong side of comfortable. The temperature was falling. Dean’s chest ached, the way it sometimes had after training sessions as a kid, before he’d learnt to block properly. If Sam hadn’t been there he would have rubbed it. Gradually, the bruised feeling faded, his heart settling back into a familiar, steady rhythm. The kind you barely noticed and assumed would last forever, until suddenly it didn’t.

Dean levered himself up, trying to ignore the way Sam’s outstretched arms hovered around him without quite touching, like a human safety net.

“C’mon,” Dean said, bumping Sam’s shoulder with his own. “Let’s go. We’re losing the light.”

*

By the time they stepped out of the woods and into the parking lot dusk had fallen, distant stars winking in and out of existence. The Impala was parked where they’d left it, a darker shade of black among the shadows.

Dean dropped his duffle on the trunk and glanced towards the caretaker’s residence. It looked strangely bloated now, a toad made of painted wood crouching half-hidden in the grass. Fluorescent light spilt through the thin, patterned curtains and across the overgrown yard, not quite reaching the fence.

A smudged face appeared at the window. 

Thelma.

Dean stiffened. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and turned back to find Sam watching him closely. Dean raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, and pressed the crossbow into Sam’s empty hands. “Take the string out,” he instructed. “And make sure it’s tied down properly. Vibrations screw with the -”

“Quiver,” Sam finished, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I remember.” He stood, fingering the leather grip, gaze drifting to the lit up building. “Uh, maybe we should just put everything in the back and take off. Wait until we don’t have an audience.”

“No,” said Dean immediately. The hinges on the trunk groaned slightly as he pulled it open. “I wanna get this done.”

Sam frowned, but didn’t argue.

They worked quickly, unloading the weapons without speaking. When everything was packed away, Dean cleared his throat and tossed the keys to Sam. “Your turn to drive,” he said. “Start the car, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“What?” Sam asked. “Where are you –“

“Sam. Get in the car.” 

Fear and resentment sparked between them in a brittle feedback loop, gaining momentum in the dark, before Sam lowered his head and muttered, “Fine.” He walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed. It left behind a vacuum of silence. 

Dean took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, and rapped a knuckle against the roof of the car. Three times for luck. He checked his gun, and then walked across the lot, gravel crunching beneath his boots, wet and gritty. 

His hand was resting on the rusted metal gate when the front door swung opened. 

From somewhere inside came the sound of a television playing, canned laughter drowning out cheesy theme music. A large, rawboned dog appeared in the doorway. It tilted its head at Dean, starting up a low, steady growl. 

“You made it back,” Thelma said, flat and conversational, stepping around the dog and out onto the porch. Her glasses caught the light, twin beacons glowing on a blank face. She patted a thigh, calling the dog closer, and ran a hand over its head, pulling gently on one ear. “Any problems?” 

Dean shrugged. “We took care of it.”

“Ah.” Thelma looked over his shoulder, contemplating the mountain, and for a second she seemed almost wistful. “That’s a shame. Grandmother had been there a long time, did a real good job of scaring folk off. Should have known you boys were gonna to be trouble.” 

“Guess you should,” he agreed. 

Dean shifted, staring into the shadows at his feet, before looking up again. Suddenly, he wanted to turn around and go back to the car; tell Sam to keep driving until they reached a bar, somewhere bright and crowded, and lose himself in the smile of a woman with whiskey wet lips. 

Instead he asked, “How many?”

Thelma went still and didn’t answer.

Bingo.

Dean’s fingers slipped into his pocket and brought out the scratch marked stone. “How many?” he repeated, holding it up. 

“Twenty years, and you’re the first one to ask me that,” Thelma said. Her voice thrummed with something that in anyone else Dean would have called excitement, and the frightening thing was that he got it, could understand why. 

_We do what we do and shut up about it._

She walked over and leaned against the railing, body loose and relaxed, like a puppet whose master had let go of the strings. He tracked the movement of her hands, certain she’d have a weapon somewhere, even if he couldn’t see it. 

Thelma regarded him with unblinking eyes.

“Drive away,” she said. “I’m not your kind of monster.”

“No, but maybe you should be.” Dean fought down the urge to draw his gun. “Close enough.”

“Really. You sure about that? Besides, what would that brother of yours think? It’s Sam, right?”

“You don’t know anyone called Sam,” Dean said. Emotion bled from his voice, leaving behind something cold and sharp. “And if that ever changes my dance card is open.”

Thelma tilted her head in acknowledgment, mouth quirking into a transient smile. “It seems we have ourselves an understanding then.” She straightened and walked back to the doorway, whistling once for the dog. “In another life I might almost have liked you. Happy hunting, Dean.”

The door closed with a dull thud, followed by the sound of locks clicking into place.

Dean exhaled sharply and walked away without looking back. 

The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet, as though the world was stuck on a conveyer belt that had moved on without him. Frustration buzzed beneath his skin. Sure, he’d make an anonymous call to the police, for all the good it would do. Exactly zero. People were never willing to believe until their lives were being kicked in, and by then it was too late.

Sam was standing next to the car, gun hanging loose at his side. He didn’t say anything, just held out the keys. His expression reminded Dean of a confused five year old, the one who’d clung to his hand on the first day of school. 

“You’re driving,” Dean said. He moved around to the passenger seat and climbed in, fingers fumbling with the handle. 

The scent of worn leather wrapped around him.

Sam settled down behind the wheel. He started the engine, and then reached back to pull out the box of cassette tapes. Plastic cases clattered as he sorted through them, squinting hard at faded, handwritten labels. 

Dean sighed. “Look, I get that you’re pissed, but can we –“

“Shut up,” Sam said tightly. “Just…shut up.” He selected one of the tapes, holding it up to the light, and then shoved it into the player. The distorted, bottom-heavy guitars of Led Zeppelin filled the car.

Dean blinked in surprise. “Dude. Good taste must be contagious.”

Sam huffed and pressed down on the gas, the parking lot disappearing behind them in a storm of loose gravel and exhaust fumes. By the time they reached the highway the needle was sitting pretty on ninety.


End file.
